Visitations
by Catalina Royce
Summary: [One Shot] Ginny visits him at the same time every week. Each time he sees her, he smiles at her and rushes over and she introduces herself like she's done every time for the past seventytwo weeks. [Nonshippingfriendship]


**Title:**Visitations  
**Author:** Catalina Royce  
**Summary:** Ginny visits him at the same time every week. Each time he sees her, he smiles at her and rushes over -- and she introduces herself like she's done every time for the past seventy-two weeks.  
**Disclaimer:** Characters and settings belong to author J. K. Rowling and her affiliates.  
**Rating:** G  
**Author's Note:** A quick fic that I've been wanting to write for a while. Breathe easy, however; this isn't a shipping story.

**Visitations**

Ginny visits him at the same time every week.

Each time he sees her, he smiles at her and rushes over. His hair is swept back into the perfect waves he was always so renowned for, the blonde locks perfectly groomed and manicured. His eyes are the clear forget-me-not blue of a little boy, troubled and confused and innocent all at the same time.

Her friends don't know that she makes this weekly pilgrimage, and she likes it that way.

Every time she arrives, she has to be reintroduced to him. A week is just too long for his memory to retain information. She says nothing about it, though. Just smiles and shakes his hand like she's done every time for the past seventy-two weeks.

He smiles and rushes over to his table. Each time she leaves with five autographed pictures; each time she throws out four and keeps one in a locked drawer with all the other weeks'.

She has his autographs from the beginning, when his joined up writing was little better than an eight-year-olds'. They go right through, get progressively neater each week, until the writing, while still juvenile, starts to form its own character.

When she first started her visitations, she hated him for being so slow-witted, hated herself for doing it to him. There were times she'd wanted to slap him and tell him to grow up – that tying his shoelaces wasn't hard, that doing up buttons was an easy thing to do, that being able to clean his teeth was nothing unusual.

She'd refrained from doing it, scared that he would never forgive her for saying it.

Now she knew better.

Just on que, he sees her and hustles over. "Hello!" he exclaims. "I suppose you want my autograph!"

As usual, she replies that actually, she'd like five; her friends would love some, too.

He grins a boyish grin and sweeps his hair off his face and rushes back to his desk. "So," he demands, "How long have you been a fan?"

She moves to the lilac armchair just near his bed. He gestures to it. "Have a seat! Lilac is my favourite colour, did you know?"

She knows. She bought it for him. "No," she replies in an interested voice. "I didn't know. It's my favourite colour, too!"

Another enthusiastic smile. He starts scribbling furiously onto his photos, his tongue poking out from the side of his mouth in concentration. She watches, a sad smile playing over her lips. "So, what have you done lately?"

He looks up, puzzled. "Done?" A moment passes. Two. "I've practiced my joined-up writing, and a got another letter from...from Gladys Gudgeon!" he exclaims, then pulls it out from a stack of papers, then shoves it at her. "See?"

Ginny reads it. So, it was week two again. Gladys always wrote in a rotation now; almost all of her letters to Lockhart were practically the same; _you're fantastic, the things you've done are amazing, I've always looked up to you,_ and _finally your adoring fan_. Privately she thinks sourly that Gladys is a woman of little intelligence; out loud she exclaims in a cheerful voice, "Well, aren't you lucky to have such a wonderful fan!"

He sweeps his hair off his face again, in a gesture of arrogance that she's seen a thousand times. "Yes," he replies, "However, I'm sure it's not less than I deserve! The things Gladys describes are truly inspiring! Did you know that I've defeated vampires and werewolves?"

She tries not to roll her eyes, tries even harder not to lose her patience. "That is very impressive."

He finishes the last autograph with a flourish; one not unlike the signings of the old days. He stacks them all up carefully, making sure not to smudge the ink or bend the paper, and then passes them over as if they are a treasure worthy of a king.

Perhaps, she thinks, to him they are.

He has pictures of himself covering the entire wall above his bed, each one winking and admiring themselves. Ginny's least favourite is the most recent one, the only one that shows Lockhart for what he is now; he is standing at the foot of the bed, looking down in confusion at his toes. He wiggles them experimentally, then laughs and does it again. It reminds her of the difference between him now and then. Every time she sees it, she has a pang of guilt.

He plops down on his bed, looking suddenly distressed. "Have we met?" He asks in puzzlement.

She smiles. "We've met. I've been a big fan for a long time. You used to teach me."

"Oh," he says with a brilliant smile that makes the cleft in his chin stand out. "I taught you, did I?" There was a pause, and, with a stroke of accuracy that never failed to unnerve her, he says, "I don't know why I'd be a teacher. I am excessively handsome, of course, but I don't think that counts for a teacher. Was I any good?" He asks with enthusiasm.

Ginny doesn't bother lying anymore. "No." She replies flatly.

"Oh." He deflates in an instant. She used to feel guilty about it. Now she just expects the next announcement. "I suppose it was because I couldn't bring my knowledge down to your level!" He says with satisfaction.

She lets out a frustrated sigh. "No, that wasn't it. It was because you were a pathetic teacher. Terrible at the Defence Against the Dark Arts."

She can see the air go out of him like a balloon. "So why are you visiting me?" Again, he comes up with an answer himself, his natural arrogance always bouncing back. "I suppose you find me so naturally handsome!"

"No," she says again, annoyed with his impossible conceit. "It's because I feel guilty." No need to guard her words. She knows he won't remember it. "I'm the one who put you in this state. It was my fault. I was young and stupid and now you're too daft to even remember who you were. And even though I find you pompous and annoying, I can't forget that if it weren't for me, you'd still be out there signing books and playing up to the media."

She can tell he's hurt. He turns away, not quickly enough to hide the tears in his eyes. He looks around for a purpose. "I have to...to practice my joined up writing," he said. "I have many fans and they all want replies and photographs. I need to practice my writing." He picks up his quill and tries to write with it.

Drowning in guilt, she watches for a minute, then stands up and moves over to him. His quill is blunt and has no ink.

The fact that he doesn't understand that makes her feel even worse. "Here," she murmurs softly, "let me sharpen your quill so that you can write Gladys a long letter." Ginny plucks it from his grasp and sharpens it quickly and efficiently, then dips it in the ink for him. She holds it out to him. "I'm sorry," she says. "I don't know why I said that." Knowing he needs more than that, she adds, "I suspect it's just that I'm jealous of you."

Being the person he is, Lockhart perks up instantly. Jealousy is something he understands. He writes with renewed vigour and application.

Ginny smiles sadly and pats his head. "It's time for me to go."

He looks up at her again, his confidence gone. "Will you come back?" She can see the loneliness in his gaze.

She smiled. "I'll come back soon, I promise." _You just won't remember me when I do._

He goes back to his writing. "This visit has been so fun," he says in a boyish voice. "I can't wait for next time. I promise I'll have more signatures done for you."

He makes that promise every time.

Ginny smiles and walks out, putting four of the autographs into the trash. The fifth she places carefully in her pocket, then Apparates home.

She visits him the same time every week. She knows his favourite colours, what he does most days, knows every inch of his face and his writing by heart.

He doesn't even know her name.

She wishes that she could dismiss the past so easily.


End file.
